Then one evening, I found an altered psychiatric form inside his locked desk.
It contained my name, a fictional diagnosis, and instructions for an involuntary transfer immediately after childbirth.
That was when I stopped confronting him.
Instead, I began collecting evidence.
Before marrying Daniel, I had worked as a forensic compliance attorney for the Department of Justice. I understood financial trails, falsified records, shell companies, and coded communications.
Most importantly, I knew that people like Daniel became careless when they believed no one was watching.
For six months, I forwarded copies of altered documents to investigators.
I wore a small recording device hidden inside a pendant.
I allowed Daniel to think pregnancy had made me distracted.
While he quietly designed a plan to erase me, I quietly documented every step.
Another contraction pulled me back to the present.
The nurse touched my shoulder.
“Maya, stay with me,” she said. “Your baby is almost here.”
For the next few minutes, Daniel’s protests faded into the background.
The agents moved him away from the bed while the medical staff surrounded me. Dr. Rowan asked everyone who was not essential to the delivery to step into the hallway.
Agent Cole remained near the door.
“You are safe,” the nurse whispered.
Safe.
